Page 19 of One Night

SIX

DUKE

With the monthof August just around the corner, the days of dealing with the U-pick blueberry season were nearly coming to a close. The influx of tourists traipsing through the northern fields was winding down. As much as it was a hassle for people to be walking through the bushes, it was undeniable that one of the primary reasons people flocked to Remington County was the opportunity to pick their own berries.

After only a few short weeks, the bushes would be picked clean, and we would shift our focus to preparing the fields for what was predicted to be a grueling Michigan winter. On the remainder of the farm property, berries were being harvested to sell locally. Migrant workers picked alongside industrial farm equipment to ensure our customers received the best product possible. In an ideal world, yields were high and losses low.

As I crossed the path from one field to another, the grim look on Cisco’s face as he approached me said I might not be so lucky. We met between two fields, and he held out his hand with a firm line on his lips.

“Boss.” He nodded once. I had told him repeatedly to just call me Duke, but for whatever reason he still insisted on the formality.

“How are things looking?” I paused to pluck a ripe berry from a nearby bush and popped it into my mouth. The burst of sweetness washed over my tongue, and I hummed. This field was perfect and ready for harvest. It didn’t matter that I preferred the slightly underripe tang of a blueberry at the beginning of this season. The end of July meant the best possible berries we had to offer our customers.

Cisco walked in step beside me. “Everyone’s been working hard. Harvest is going well. No issues that anyone has brought to my attention.”

I nodded, satisfied that the agricultural laborers I employed were not only getting the job done, but they were content. Cisco updated me on the progress of each field, which contained workers handpicking berries as we walked toward my home and the main entrance to the farm.

Cisco took his job seriously. He had a strong work ethic and was a good manager. He took care of his people, and he had high standards. He was also a no-bullshit kind of man.

I liked that too.

As we got closer to the long path that led to the entrance to Sullivan Farms, the squeal of school bus brakes drew our attention. Beyond the small berm that acted as a wind barrier, the top of a yellow school bus stopped at the entryway and held my attention.

As a part of the Michigan Migrant Education Program, any children of migrant workers were entitled to attend school year-round. The bus, which the farm happily funded, picked the children up every morning and brought them to the local school, where they received an education. Despite the fact that bare minimum was required by law, I prided myself in our approach. We took care of our own here.

Laughter filled the air as a group of children ran up the drive. Various ages—from kids barely out of kindergarten to thosepushing high school—raced up the driveway. The littlest ones had eager waves, and I held my hand up in greeting.

Rather than continuing down the path and turning right toward my home, the group went left toward the area of land where I supplied housing for any family that worked on Sullivan Farms. The rows upon rows of double-wide trailers were nothing fancy, but they were clean and safe homes for the people who dedicated their days to harvesting blueberries for me. It was a benefit of working at Sullivan Farms that drew many of the same families season after season. I liked getting to know the families as they lived and grew on my farm.

One little boy, Nicolas, broke from the group and came barreling toward me. His face split into a wide grin, and he waved one arm wildly. Cisco and I laughed as his backpack bounced behind him, nearly half the size of the young boy himself.

His enthusiastic rapid-fire stream of Spanish poked a hole right in my chest. Nico was damn cute.

I crouched to listen as he relayed the events of his day at school. I nodded and responded in Spanish, telling him how happy I was that he had had a good day. I wasn’t sure exactly when I had become fluent, but it was important to me to be able to communicate with the people who worked for me. If they were living and working on my farm, it seemed like the bare minimum for me to be able to speak with them freely and in a way that made them more comfortable.

Over time the giggles and chuckles at my misspeaking became less and less frequent until finally I was fluent.

In school, the kids were also learning English, and Nico was excited to share with me a few new words he had learned. “Blueberry. Character. Setting. Mr. Duke.”

Mr. Duke.

The way my name rolled off his tongue and the evident pride sparkling in his eyes shifted something inside me. I ruffled his hair and squeezed his shoulders with a grin.“Perfecto.”

I stood and pointed in the direction of his waiting mother, then waved to her. She smiled and waved back as Nico bounded off in her direction.

Cisco scrubbed a hand behind his neck.

I sighed, sensing he was dodging an uncomfortable conversation. “Just say it already.”

“There’s another family. Benny’s brother-in-law They’re hoping there might be space to work at Sullivan Farms.”

I listened despite the tension that crept its way into my jaw.

“He and his wife have three children, but their oldest boy is thirteen. Benny said he’s willing to have him work the fields.”

I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not.” Cisco’s expression faltered, and he went to speak before I held up a hand to stop him from interrupting me. “He’s a kid. He needs to be in school.”

I quickly calculated the mounting cost of adding an additional family to the number of people already housed at Sullivan Farms. It would mean adding an additional trailer. Transportation. A discussion with the school for the children.

---